by Howard Pyle
Huntford was struck silent in an instant. “Followed!” he repeated, blankly.
“Ja,” said Herr Vollmer; “do not turn your head, but walk as though you did not know.”
Huntford’s mind was instantly flung into a tumult. Followed! What did it mean? Why were they being followed? Who was following them? It required almost a physical effort upon his part to prevent himself from turning his head. Meantime Herr Vollmer said nothing, being busied, apparently, with his own thoughts. He still kept his arm linked within Huntford’s, and so they walked quietly up Broadway, around the corner of Fourteenth Street, and toward the cabstand opposite the old Rialto in front of the Union Square Theatre. As they approached the stand, Herr Vollmer said, speaking very quietly:
“We shall take a cab, and then I will leave you. When you get to the end of your ride pay the cabman and let him go; I will pay you again when you return.”
Huntford, astounded and silent, followed his companion across the dim, lamplit street. Herr Vollmer chose a cab with some particularity.
“Drive ns,” he said to the cabman, speaking in a clear and distinct voice — drive us to four hundred and fifty-two Fifth Avenue.”
He opened the door and entered the cab, Huntford following him, still silent and bewildered.
The cabman climbed to his seat and folded his blanket carefully about his legs. As he gathered up his reins, Herr Vollmer quickly and quietly opened the door near to him and stopped out into the street upon the side away from the sidewalk. As he did so the cab drove off, and Huntford, after a moment or two of paralysis, closed the door which his companion in his sudden flight had left open.
Huntford’s thoughts as he traveled up Fifth Avenue were, as may be supposed, both tumultuous and confused. He was thrilled with a not unpleasurable excitement. What did it all mean? He felt like a man in a story, and he could hardly believe that these things were really happening to him. Hardly for a moment did he entertain the thought that Herr Vollmer was a mere vulgar criminal escaping’ from justice; but a thousand surmises flew through his mind as to why the old gentleman should be escaping a pursuer, and as to why it had been necessary for him to escape by a cunning trick like the clever rogue in a detective story.
At last the cab drew up to the curb, and Huntford leaped out and handed the man his fare. The fellow was evidently greatly astonished to see only one gentleman get out of the carriage wherein two had entered, but he made no comment. He gathered up his reins and drove slowly away up the lamplit street.
Ere the cab disappeared, another drove rapidly up, and even before it had stopped the door was flung violently open and a stout, burly little man, with black mustaches waxed and turned up at the point, hopped out upon the pavement. He ran to Huntford and, catching him violently by the arm, poured out upon him a torrent of excited German words.
“I don’t understand you,” said Huntford. “I don’t speak German.”
“Ach!” cried the other, with an oath. “Dot man who vas mit you come, vere is he alretty?”
“You’re mistaken,” said Huntford. “Nobody was with me; I came alone.”
The little German cried out aloud in his own language. He paused — he smote his fist violently against his forehead. “Ach!” he cried to the cabman. “Follow dot cabriolet und catch it ven it stops, und I gif you five taller!” He leaped in even as he spoke, banged to the door, and the cab went off with a whirl.
Huntford went straight hack to Thirteenth Street and to Herr Vollmer’s studio. He was so consumed with curiosity to know what the late adventure portended that he ran up the stairs two or three steps at a time and smote his knuckles very sharply upon Herr Vollmer’s door.
“Come in,” Herr Vollmer called, and Huntford entered. Herr Vollmer was placidly reading a German newspaper and smoking his great meerschaum pipe. He looked up over his eye - glasses at Huntford. “Ah,” he said, “you have returned? That is good! Now I will play for you Beethoven, or Mozart, or Chopin, or what you like!”
Only once did Herr Vollmer again refer to the episode. As Huntford was going he said, “How much did you pay the cabriolet?”
“I gave him a dollar,” said Huntford.
“That was a great deal,” remarked the old gentleman. He took out a pocket-book that was apparently well filled and gave Huntford a crisp, new note. He never afterward spoke of the affair.
It was shortly after this that the mystery that surrounded Herr Vollmer was further complicated by the appearance of the fair Nihilist upon the scene.
A day or two after the incident of the cab ride, Huntford returned from lunch at the Budapest Bakery and saw an exceedingly neat but very plain coupé, with a driver and a footman clad in plain livery, waiting in front of the entrance of the studio building. He wondered to whom the outfit could belong, and as he stood speculating for a moment with his foot upon the step the postman came. Huntford asked if there were any letters, and the postman gave him three.
“Here’s one for Mr. Frederick Vollmer,” the man said.
“All right! Give it to me,” said Huntford, “and I’ll take it up to him myself.”
He went straight up to Herr Vollmer’s studio and rapped upon the door, and he was surprised, almost startled, to hear a clear, high, feminine voice from within call out, “ Entrez!” and then, “Come in!”
He was so taken aback that he hesitated a moment, with his hand touching the knob. Then the voice called out a little louder and a little higher than before, “Come in!” and thereupon Huntford opened the door.
A young lady was sitting under the studio window. The light from above and behind fell upon a soft mass of exceedingly fair hair, and seemed to surround her head as with an aureole of brightness. This same light was reflected back into her face and illuminated it with a clear and pearly luster. She was faultlessly dressed, but with almost an exuberant taste. A cloak trimmed with fur, a great black hat with a mass of curling ostrich feathers, and a pair of slim, gray gauntlets lay upon the couch beside her.
Huntford, holding the door partly open as in preparation for an immediate withdrawal, said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that Herr Vollmer had a visitor. I only came up to bring him a letter that the postman left with me at the door.”
He was very much embarrassed, and was conscious that his excuse had been clumsily framed. She looked coolly and steadily at him for a moment or two, and then smiled, and said in a queer, lisping, accented, yet perfect English:
“You are Mr. Huntford?” Huntford bowed acknowledgment. “Herr Vollmer — my uncle Frederick,” she said, “has often spoken of you to me.”
At that instant Herr Vollmer himself entered the studio from a back room. He had a portfolio in his hand, and he appeared hurried and vexed.
Huntford again made his explanation with distressing embarrassment. He said that he did not know that Herr Vollmer had a visitor — that the postman had given him a letter, and that he had fetched it to save delay and by way of an accommodation — that he was very sorry indeed to have intruded.
Even before he had finished his lame and halting excuses, Herr Vollmer turned his back almost brusquely and laid down his portfolio with a smack upon the piano.
The young lady had watched first the one and then the other. Then, as the old gentleman smacked down his portfolio, she spoke, suddenly, sharply, and imperatively, in German. The effect was magical. Herr Vollmer instantly swung around and bowed to her almost submissively. She spoke again with equal sharpness and emphasis, and Herr Vollmer instantly clicked his heels together and delivered a deep and stately bow to Huntford, bending his body as by a hinge at the hips.
“Mr. Huntford,” he said, “at her request I have the honor of presenting you to Fraulein Victoria — my niece, Fraulein Victoria Wittenheim.” He spoke very precisely, as though choosing his words with elaboration, and he enunciated them with a more than usual foreign accent. Fraulein Victoria smiled very kindly upon Huntford as he bowed.
“Herr Vollmer,” she said, “did not mean
to be cross to you” (she spoke very quaintly), “but he is just now vexed. It happens that we have some important matters to be discussed, and so I know that you will not want to stay. But I hope soon — very soon — to have the pleasure of making your better acquaintance.” Then Huntford in some way got himself out of Herr Vollmer’s room and went down-stairs to his own studio.
The next morning there was a knock at his door. He opened it, and was astonished to see Herr Vollmer. The old gentleman had never come uninvited before. He did not enter now, but, standing upon the landing, he delivered to Huntford a profound bow similar to that with which he had favored him the day before, when he introduced him to Fraulein Victoria Wittenheim — a very stiff, very formal bow — his heels close together, and his body bending hingelike in the middle.
“Mr. Huntford,” he said, “the Fraulein Victoria, my niece, has commanded me to tell you that she will be pleased to have you dine with her in the evening.” Huntford was very much surprised. “Oh! Thank you,” he said. “I shall be delighted. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, no,” said Herr Vollmer. “I have matters that need my attention. I will call for you at half-past seven.” That evening the old gentleman called, as he had promised, promptly at half-past seven. “You will find a carriage at the door,” he said. “If you will go down and take your seat in it, I will join you in a moment.”
Huntford obeyed, somewhat astonished. The neat coupé which he had seen the day before was at the curb in front of the building, the footman standing beside it waiting, with his gloved hands folded in front of him. He opened the door the instant that Huntford appeared, and then held it ajar after he had seated himself. A moment later Herr Vollmer appeared at the door of the building. He paused within the portal for a moment, looking sharply up and down the street ere he came forth. Then he stepped quickly across the pavement and popped into the carriage beside Huntford. Instantly the door was shut, and at the same moment Herr Vollmer pulled down the curtain on his side, and almost immediately the carriage moved away at a rapid pace.
Huntford did not speak. He was struck with the obvious solicitude of the old gentleman to escape observation. He wondered why Herr Vollmer was so anxious not to be seen. Perhaps he feared lest the stout little gentleman with the black, waxed mustaches should be near by. Then he noticed that the coupé in which he rode was very luxurious. He wondered what it all meant! He wondered where he was being taken!
The coupé drove rapidly down to Fifth Avenue; down to Washington Square; around the square and up Fifth Avenue again, moving ever more and more swiftly. It whirled rapidly up Fifth Avenue to Twenty-third Street; across Madison Square; up Madison Avenue to Thirty-fifth Street, and then around the corner toward Park Avenue. Then it drew up sharply in front of one of those plain, narrow, typical houses of the genteel side streets of the day.
Even as the carriage stopped at the curb, the footman dropped from his seat and opened the door, and Herr Vollmer stepped out and hurried across the pavement to the house. The door was immediately opened to him, and as they passed within was immediately closed behind them.
There was a wonderful flavor of mystery about the entire affair — Huntford thrilled with the romance of it. The mysterious riding around and around ere the final and not distant destination was reached was startlingly suggestive of infinite precaution to escape pursuit. Who were these people with whom he was becoming acquainted? Why did they seek so obviously to escape notice?
Now that he stood in Fraulein Victoria’s house he was amazed at the unexpected style and affluent taste of the establishment. Two silent men servants instantly appeared as if by magic and relieved him and Herr Vollmer of their hats and coats. There were rich, soft rugs upon the floor; there were pictures upon the walls; the furniture was ornate and heavy; a perfume of flowers filled the house.
They entered the drawing-room, and as they did so the Fraulein Victoria laid aside a hook which she was indolently reading and arose to greet them.
She was clad in an evening dress of soft, clinging white, simply but perfectly made, and fitting her slender figure with astonishing precision. Her long, slender, perfectly round white neck was encircled with a necklace of diamonds, and her fingers were brilliant — almost too brilliant — with a load of jeweled rings.
The little dinner for three was of the very best, and was served to perfection. Fraulein Victoria played the hostess with a certain easy dignity, which was only lessened in Hunt-ford’s eyes when, at the end of the dinner, with her coffee she lit a cigarette. It was in those days altogether unusual for ladies to smoke cigarettes after dinner. She perhaps read something of Hunt-ford’s surprise in his looks, for she said:
“Your American ladies do not smoke cigarettes? No? Try one of these and you will see what they miss. The Austrian Ambassador—”
Herr Vollmer interrupted her with a few words in German. She laughed, and gave a puff of her cigarette.
“True,” she said. “I forgot. No matter about the Austrian Ambassador.”
After dinner they ascended to the rooms above.
“And now,” she said. “Herr Vollmer — my uncle Frederick — shall play us some Chopin, and we will sit in the next room and listen to him.”
She did listen for a little while, fanning herself very slowly. Then presently she began to talk to Huntford about himself. The frankness of her questions concerning his most intimate affairs would have been impertinent had she not been so obviously and so innocently unconscious. She was very much interested in all that he told her about himself, and was evidently quite as much amused. She asked him about his people, his associates, the life he led in the studio, the life he led in society; about how long he worked every day, and how much he earned. She asked everything as though she had a perfect authority to do so, and Huntford, delighted with the drollery of it all, told her everything that she desired to know.
Then he began asking her about herself — it seemed to him to be only fair that he should be allowed to do so in return for his complaisance in submitting to her cross-examination. She was much amused that he should question her, but was apparently a little reluctant to answer him.
Huntford was more interested in her than he had ever been in any one in all of his life before. Her total lack of knowledge of social life, the perfect and unembarrassed freedom with which she asked him about himself and his most intimate affairs both amused and entertained him. He could in no wise reconcile her perfect ignorance of the social limitations in such a common matter as the ordinary limit to impertinent curiosity with the perfect ease and precision with which she had been able to play the grand hostess at her own table. Who was she, and what was she, he wondered — and it was just at this point in his thoughts that she told him that her people did not allow her to know society. “Who are your people?” he asked.
In an instant the smile faded from her face; she drew herself up and looked, or rather stared, coldly and haughtily at him. The next moment, however, she smiled. “N’importe. You should not ask me such questions,” she said.
There was a moment’s pause; Huntford felt that he had been distinctly rebuffed.
“You must not be cross,” she said. “There are things that are forbidden for me to talk about to any one. Herr Vollmer — my uncle Frederick,” she continued, changing the subject— “says that your friends with whom he sometimes dines call him ‘Count.’”
“Yes,” said Huntford, “they do. He has rather a distinguished, aristocratic air. You may have observed it yourself.”
She laughed very heartily. “Poor Uncle Frederick,” she said.
“I feel very sorry for him,” said Huntford. “He must be under considerable expense, and I don’t think he has had a single order for heraldic designs since he set up his studio.”
Again she laughed joyously. “Oh, Mr. Huntford,” she said, “that is very droll! Mais n’importe; I see to it that poor Uncle Frederick has all that he needs.”
Huntford was suddenly enlightened upon one poin
t. That explained why the poor old gentleman lived so luxuriously, and why he was so in awe of his niece. She was wealthy and she was supporting him. Huntford had almost forgotten the music; now he suddenly began listening to it again. Poor old Herr Vollmer! He was playing so patiently and so beautifully in the adjoining room. He doubtless had to play when she bade him, and to cease when she told him to stop. The pathos of his servile position struck Huntford with a pang of pity. “It is a sad thing,” he said, “for a man to be dependent upon another for his support.”
She smiled with perfect indifference. “Ah,” she said, “you mean Herr Vollmer? He does not mind; he has been dependent upon my family as long as I can remember.”
Again Huntford wondered who her family could be, but this time he did not venture to question her.
Suddenly, as he sat thinking, she turned toward him. “And now, Mr. Huntford,” she said, very calmly, “I am going to venture to ask you to go. The evening has been very pleasant to me, and I hope that you will call upon me soon again, for I like you very much.” She smiled up at him very kindly, but did not arise.
As Huntford walked home that night his brain was in a whirl. What did it all mean? Who were these strange people? Who was she? Then suddenly, in a flash, the secret stood revealed. A short time before, the Czar of Russia had been assassinated, and people still talked much about it. These people were Nihilists! They had escaped from Europe and were hiding here in New York! In an instant he saw it all as plain as day.
Huntford began calling at the little house in Thirty-fifth Street once or twice a week, and ended by calling every day. He frequently dined at the house, and was always treated as an intimate and privileged visitor.
Of course he fell in love — ardently, deeply, profoundly, passionately in love; how could it be otherwise? Her beauty; the charm of her alternating moods of condescending, amused familiarity and sudden hauteur; the singular mystery that surrounded her; all so attracted him and so appealed to his imagination that his passion, when it became kindled, did not quit him day or night. It became with him so that he could not chain his attention to his work because of the divine restlessness that haunted him.